For Julian is an antiquary, that is a person who studies the past through looking at historical artefacts. And it is his lifetime’s collection of the stuff (and still counting), that I am delighted to have been invited to see today.
Not far from where I live stands the Martyrs’ Memorial, a tall spire like edifice crowned with a cross positioned at the northern gateway into the city centre.
Just before Christmas I get a call from my friend Cordelia. She asks if I’d be interested in meeting her by what is affectionately known as the Elijah Terrace on Walton Well Road just north of Jericho. For she wants to explore the story of the Old Testament prophet as told in the magnificent stone carvings that decorate in exquisite detail the lunettes above nine of the first-floor windows here. It is from these that this row of houses has derived its nickname.
Down I go and on reaching ground level it becomes clear exactly what it is that I have just traversed. A high wall of roughly hewn field stone. Not grand by any means. But exciting nonetheless. For this was once the western boundary of a royal palace. The curtilage wall for the King’s Houses or Beaumont Palace as it became known. Built around 900 years ago in the 1130’s for William the Conqueror’s youngest son Henry I. And as I was on a mission to uncover anything that might remain of this royal residence I was absolutely delighted.
I have long been intrigued by the pretty gabled house that stands in a quiet cul de sac near Oxford’s High Street. For it is a miracle as to how the place stays upright. The walls sag, the windows are wonky and the drainpipes don’t quite run in straight lines. I often wonder whether the Corpus Christi students who now live here negotiate the lopsided landings and how they keep their books and belongs from sliding from the sloping shelves.
Imagine yourself back in the year 1126. Arising early to make the long journey from Oxford to London, you leave through the east gate of the city and follow the…
They are hidden all over Oxford and beyond. Outside, amongst the trees of parks and gardens, positioned in courtyards and parking lots. Huge ancient, crowned heads, features blackened with time, hair interlaced with lichen, lips softened by moss, some so weathered it is hard to see there ever was a face shaped out of the blocks of stone.
In between showers last week I cycled over Magdalen Bridge to East Oxford to meet with photographer Simon Murison-Bowie. He’s written a book in which he explores some of the very first photographs taken of Oxford back in the 1840’s.
Hurly burly, higgeldy piggledy, nitty gritty – what’s not to love about these delightful, reduplicative words. They infuse the English language with humour, playfulness and well, a little bit of razzle dazzle. So when I discovered there was such a thing as a crinkle crankle wall and that one resided in Oxford I felt compelled to search it out. Easy peasy I thought.
Just over a week ago, on April 23rd to be exact, I joined a jolly parade of University and City dignitaries robed in a fine collection of scarlet, fur and velvet…